


Braves Behind the Zodiac

by CorsetJinx



Category: Final Fantasy Tactics
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/F, F/M, Gen, Job Class shenanigans, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, mostly npc unit centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2018-12-04 06:46:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 8,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11549718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsetJinx/pseuds/CorsetJinx
Summary: Wars are fought and won by the hands and lives of the masses, not just those proclaimed as heroes. Key players have their fame and those who worked beside them linger on. A series of ficlets mostly centered around npc generic units.





	1. Epilogues - Part 1

"It has been five months." Folke remarked, stoking the fire gingerly with a stick. It crackled and though he winced at the noise he was grateful for the warmth. "Do you suspect we shall ever see them again?"

"Unlikely." Roundelph grimaced as he adjusted his leg, refraining from picking at the splint only because he knew it would do more harm than good to mess with it. Even if it did bloody well itch. "I still believe Ramza survived the fires with everyone else, but I do not think we shall cross paths again."

He glanced at the other boy thoughtfully and tried to soften his tone. "I do owe you my thanks, however. For staying and for helping me with this." Gesturing to his leg seemed like an unnecessary thing. It wasn't like anyone would be able to overlook the splint.

Folke smiled. "It's no trouble. I'm just happy that I came upon you when I did. Things might have turned much worse, otherwise."

"You needn't indulge my imagination." Roundelph sighed, leaning back against the log he'd chosen for a seat. "But that does not make me any less glad to see a familiar face. Five months is it? What have you been doing?"

"Traveling, same as you." Folke laid down his stick, averting his eyes from the flames. "Helping people where I can. A boon, I suppose, for studying white magic."

"I remember you were one of the better ones at it." Roundelph mused. "I wish I'd learned more, but it's tricky stuff, magic."

Some of the tension left Folke's shoulders as he laughed and he looked more at ease. "I could teach you, if you like. Since we'll be traveling together until your leg heals. That's another thing about magic - it can only do so much of the body's work."

"I hadn't wanted to assume that you would stay so long." Roundelph curved his mouth into a smile, relief buoying in his chest. "Thank you - again."

"Worry not," Folke's tone took on a teasing edge. "I still remember how to wield a spear enough to be of use to us both."


	2. Epilogues - Part 2

"We cannot thank you enough, I'm afraid." The leader of the caravan sighed as he scratched at his hairline, hat on the verge of tumbling off his head. "Weren't expecting monsters of that kind to be in there."

"So long as you take care from here," Sirris assured, "I doubt you shall encounter harm. This road is clear of bandits. The King has done much to ensure that, at least."

If the man took issue with her tone towards the king he didn't show it. It could well be that his sense of relief tuned out all else. That, or the sword at her side convinced him to stay his tongue.

"I don't suppose I can convince you to stay with us until we reach the next town?" He raised both brows at her hopefully. "I've a little bit of coin. It's not much, but - "

"I will see you through to Dorter." Sirris did not smile, but her voice was calm. "Araguay Woods is no place to travel unarmed. Particularly when the weather is foul."

His expression brightened at that. He pulled his hat back onto his head, bearded face breaking out into a smile.

"Ajora bless you, Lady. Thank you. Truly. Once we've made our stop in Dorter I'll be certain to pay you what I can."

She shook her head, hand falling to rest on the pommel of her sword. "Save your money. It will have better use to you and yours, I am sure."

"But - "

"Please. I have errands of my own within the city to attend. There will be coin enough from that, I warrant." Her face softened a little and she tried, awkwardly, to smile in a way she hoped was kind. "Once everyone inside has recovered, we may move out. Agreed?"

"Yes." He nodded, moving to step inside the wagon again. "My thanks to you, again."


	3. Epilogues - Part 3

" _Lothric!_ _Sreda!_ Up with you both, I have news!" Edmund paid little mind to the sleepier patrons of the inn as he climbed the stairs, almost taking them two at a time. The door of his room opened as he approached, allowing him a glimpse of his comrades already well awake and dressed.

"Excellent." He grinned, looking between Lothric's quirked brow and Sreda's curious stare. "I have news."

He was pulled into the room with little ceremony, the latch falling into place behind him.

"We heard." Lothric admonished.

"Pretty sure the whole inn heard." Sreda commented, testing the edge of her blade with her thumb. "Aren't we to avoid giving our true names while in towns?"

Edmund waved a hand dismissively, plopping down across from Sreda as Lothric stood guard by the door. "Perhaps if we were any closer to Lionel Castle, but we're not. I doubt the names of a few mercenaries will turn any heads."

"What is your news?" Sreda inquired, cutting off what was likely to be a rebuke from Lothric.

"Alicia and Lavain are well." Edmund grinned. "Ladd is currently with Orlandeau, assisting him with his work. I've heard from Lavain that the Lady Agrias was well, last they crossed paths some months ago."

Sreda sheathed her weapon with a smile, sinking back against her pillow. "That is good news indeed. I always wondered what had happened with those three."

"Alicia and Lavain are joined at the hip." Lothric reminded them with faint amusement. "And the Lady Agrias is no easy foe. That she should find her way in this world doesn't surprise me. But Ladd, working with Orlandeau? _That_ does."

"He always looked up to Cid." Edmund protested mildly, folding his arms behind his head. "Doubtless he intends to try and learn the channeling arts from him."

" _Or_ ," Sreda hummed, tapping Edmund's boot with her own. "He only wants to help."

Edmund sighed. "Aye, or that."

"Anything of Ramza or Alma?" Lothric asked. "Of Meliadoul or the others?"

Some of the levity faded from his friend's face, leaving his expression more closed off than before.

"I have heard that Meliadoul seeks her own way," he began slowly, "but I could not tell you where that has taken her or what she may seek through it. Mustadio works for his father, and Worker 8 is with them. Rapha and Marach have fled to some haven - I only know that they are together and well enough to travel. Of Ramza or Alma, I can only wish I had something to say. Both have disappeared, from what I've heard. Like ghosts."

Sreda chewed on her lip for a moment - a habit from her early days at the Akademy. She looked between them before finally voicing her thoughts. "Mayhap Ramza found his way back to some safe place of his own?"

"And taken Alma with him?" Lothric suggested.

"She would have nowhere else to go." Sreda reminded him. "The Beoulve's are gone - each and every one. I do not think she would have made for Lesalia, even _if_ she and Ovelia were friends all those years ago."

Edmund lowered his arms, settling his elbows on his knees. "Better that she go to wherever that place may be. Better that she never think of Ivalice again."

"And us?" Lothric posed the question softly, arms folded. "We must still live within Ivalice's borders and make our own decisions based on that."

"We have a job this afternoon." Sreda tapped her fingers on her knee slowly, frowning. "Once we've seen it through we ought to put some distance between ourselves for a time. For safety's sake, if nothing else. We'll write when we can. Next town we meet in should be..."


	4. Epilogues - Part 4

A loud whirring caught the stablehands' attention, drawing them out of their tasks to peek out at the commotion. Some of the birds within their pens stirred out of their afternoon doze, perking up at the sound of another chocobo.

It all happened very fast. Very sudden.

A blur of red feathers charged determinedly past the gate, a deep booming _wark!_ announcing it's presence and demanding all others get out of the way or be trampled. Staff scattered, cries of alarm filling the air as the unfamiliar bird was joined by - of all things - a black chocobo landing squarely in the middle of the paddock.

Riderless, it set about examining the pens, chirruping as it apparently found what it was looking for.

Boco voiced his pleasure by _kweh_ -ing excitedly, kicking open the door to his pen. He was surrounded in a moment, butting heads affectionately with the red and the black birds. The sound of their wings was impressive, dwarfed only by the call and response of their voices.

Lord Beoulve was sent for immediately, on the merit of the foreign birds seeming well acquainted with the warbirds he and his sister had arrived on.

Much like Boco, Ramza was overwhelmed in a second - lost from view as he was nuzzled, jostled, irately pecked and chirped at by the two birds and Boco.

Alma laughed from her spot by the inner gate, clutching at it to maintain her balance.


	5. Learning Faces - Folke

Folke has little claim to noble blood, but his family has money and there are worse things than becoming a cadet in the Garliand Akademy. He has more faith than some recruits his age, but works to keep up with the grueling pace set by the instructors. He does not hate them. Not truly. They are only trying to take daughters and sons and turn them into capable soldiers.

He meets Ramza Beoulve on his second day of attendance. When the second youngest Beoulve smiles it's like something quickens in his chest. 

But that would be _unseemly_. So he says nothing and works to be only Ramza's friend.

-

There are rudimentary books accessible to cadets that deal with the workings of magic. He thumbs through one on one of their light days, reads the words aloud to himself until the noon bell tolls. Then he has to run, literally, because being late for training of any sort is like asking one of the senior Knights to target you in their drills.

Later, as Ramza leads them towards Eagrose after saving Argath, he decides to learn the arts of white magic.

Sreda and Roundelph are capable Chemists, yes, but he's sure it couldn't hurt to have someone who doesn't need to study the composition of a potion to heal on hand.

Ramza approves of the idea, which makes him happy, and that is when he is presented with his first stave. 'Tis a simple thing, plain wood and nothing more, but it feels right in his hands. His first attempt at a Cure spell hardly seals more than deep bruises, but he works at it as hard as he can.

In his hubris, he declines Sreda's lesson on potions, preferring to keep his knowledge of squirehood in mind for the next battle.

He nearly dies from being cornered by a red panther, out of magic and his staff is a pitiful deterrent against the beast's claws. He's saved by Delita throwing him a potion and returns to camp with his ears burning the whole night. He can't face Ramza or Sreda right then, pretending to be so lost in his spellbook that he nearly misses dinner.

Roundelph knocks their knees together and hands him a bottle that's half full with blue liquid.

"We'll start with the basics," he says amiably enough, smiling as Folke turns the bottle nervously around in his hands. "Blue for potion, green for ether. Got it?"

"Blue for potion," he repeats, "green for ether."

"That's the way of it." Roundelph encourages, still smiling. He's much like Delita - tanned and dark haired, _handsome_ in a way that's different from Ramza.

He pushes down on that feeling too, smiles when spoken to, and applies himself to the study of Chemistry so that the day's foul up doesn't happen again. Hopefully.

It's several battles later that he crushes a goblin's skull with naught but his stave, robes heavy and muddied, that he catches Sreda and the others staring as the beast topples over. He casts Cura over them to hide his embarrassment and hides his face in his hood as it begins to rain.


	6. Learning Faces - Roundelph

Roundelph considers himself a simple young man. He's not the strongest in his class but he's familiar with the mixing of things and so he's a Chemist by his first year and very proud of it. The making of potions calms him, though he'll always wrinkle his nose at the medicinal smell.

He jokes with his classmates and huffs and puffs under his heavy canvas apron during drills, contemplates throwing a bottle of unrefined ether at a Knight's snobbish blond head when the older boy makes the comment that "some of the rabble are useful".

He doesn't actually do it. This tutelage is hard-bought and if he gets kicked out now then there's little future ahead for him.

So he sits in the middle of the class and takes his lessons as they come and when he hears bright laughter from one of the courtyards and sees Ramza Beoulve standing there, he smiles. Delita is laughing too, but only just. Their eyes meet and Roundelph nods courteously - not because Delita is now, in a manner, Barbaneth Beouvle's son, but because Delita has always treated him kindly enough and that's a precious thing, here.

-

"You decided to study herbs?" Sreda asks him, her brow furrowed and her mouth set in what he thinks is a cute pout.

"Yes. Folke is intent on being our white mage. And Edmund shows promise with the black mage's arts. I thought it would be useful to learn." He tells her. He's in a good mood today. The weather had seen them safely through the Mandalia Plains and learning new things always fascinates him.

And he likes Sreda. She's funny. And smart.

And she has a keen throwing arm, which every Chemist ought to aspire to.

"You don't even know how to make a phoenix down yet!" She admonishes, kicking him lightly on the ankle. "What good is an herb going to do them if they run out of magic and get themselves thrashed?"

"We have you for that." He counters, trying not to send his dinner all over his lap as he aims to kick back. "Don't think that I haven't seen you, poring over all the recipes you can find."

Her knife flashes in her hand and in the next moment she's speared the choicest bit of meat out of his bowl and chews on it with obvious satisfaction.

He stares at her, then attempts retaliation.


	7. Learning Faces - Sreda

There is hardly any sort of equality between men and women in the military. Sreda knows this. She knows it well when she is the only girl in her class for a whole year and more than one boy laughs when she cannot lift a sword properly, nor swing it as effectively as they can.

Nearly all the instructors are men. What few women there are tend to be Knights - nearly as joyless and harsh as their counterparts.

Knighthood doesn't interest her and archery is only so engrossing. Her fingers fumble on the crossbow and it jams, earning her a scolding and extra tasks for the next three days. Her father, when peering at her scores, looks down his moustache at her and asks if she has considered whether any boy might be fit for marriage.

She sneaks out that night, buys six different apothecary books and reads them until the text blurs before her eyes and she nearly passes out on top of them.

Chemists are always in demand, but it is a wholly different field from being a Squire or a Knight or an Archer. There is a competition for ingredients and supplies, arguments are frequently heard on what is exactly the right way to brew a potion or distill an ether.

She takes notes. Chops ingredients as deftly as she can with her knife. Mixes concoctions in the labs over and over until she tastes nothing but blue bubbly stuff for a week.

When one of the boys who had belittled her as a squire asks for her help in the next drill - not recognizing her beneath the cap and the blue canvas and he doesn't ask so much as _demand_ \- she throws the potion at him with enough accuracy to earn the highest mark on the test.

She loses points for smashing his nose, but it's not as if the damage is visible any longer. The potion took care of that.

That's how she mees Roundelph. He's the only one who claps when she'd straightened up from her throw, a grin splitting his face from ear to ear.

-

They have all come a long way since leaving the Akademy, but the man called Wiegraf Folles just _will not_ go down. Ramza calls for them to retreat, to regroup on the high ground by the mill and force Folles to come to them.

She loads another bolt into her crossbow, checks the dwindling supply of potions in her bag and feels her heart sink with distress when Ramza must call Delita's name several times before the young man finally falls back. Delita doesn't look at her as he moves to join the main group but his expression is a frozen mask of the distress she feels. He looks too pale.

Edmund is the one who helps Roundelph get back to safety, panting beneath his mage's hat and the weight of magical exhaustion. He'd cast the strongest spells he knew - but nothing seems to dull the edge of Folles' anger.

She tries not to think on it too hard. None of them had really wanted to kill Milleuda. No one but Argath - and now this terrible thing has occurred.

She doesn't know Tietra Heiral, but she does not want to think of the poor girl bound and terrified somewhere, a puppet in the ploy of men. It hits a little too closely to home.

Folles clears the rise marking the beginning of their fragile haven and Sreda doesn't need to hear Ramza's shouted command to heft her crossbow and pull the trigger. The bolt buries itself in his shoulder, knocking him back several steps.

He snaps off the shaft of the bolt and throws it aside, raising his sword in an all too familiar motion.


	8. Learning Faces - Lothric

Lothric comes to join them the same time as Sirris does, but they have no knowledge of one another until then. Lothric is a quiet lad, but diligent. Like Folke, he is gifted when it comes to the magical arts, but he also pursues knowledge and skill in swordcraft.

He matches blades with Ramza eagerly enough. Delita too, if the other boy feels the desire to practice. He doesn't speak about his family, or where he's from, but there is a faint lilt to his words that isn't native to Garliand and doesn't quite match the measured tones of Eagrose. He studies with Folke and Edmund as they pour over their magic, even takes an interest in chemistry when Roundelph offers to teach him.

"I should like to know how to make an elixir, one day." He remarks one night, gently spinning a vial of potion between his fingers.

"Keep at it and you'll get there soon enough." Sreda encourages. She likes Lothric fairly well.

"Is it as potent as the tales claim?" He asks, looking between them. They have the most experience with the mixing of concoctions. He trusts in them.

Both of them shrug, similar looks of wistfulness on their faces.

"None were available for study at the Akademy."

"My apologies, but I've never seen one either."

"No worries," he tells them, still twirling the potion. "We shall figure it out on our own, I suppose."

-

Edmund is drunk, or close enough to it, to ask.

"You ne'er drink." He mumbles, head tipping too sharply to one side as he squints at Lothric. "You don't do _anything_." He gestures loosely to the tavern as a whole, leaning against the table. "You don't look at _girls_ 'n you don't look at _men_. Don't you like _anyone_?"

He's speaking too loud. Several patrons are staring. Ramza glances at their table, silently asking if he's alright.

"I would appreciate it if you lowered your voice, friend." Lothric sips from his mug slowly, determinedly ignoring the lingering stares. "Who you bed is of no concern to me."

"'m not asking about _me_." Edmund sighs. "'m asking for _you_."

"No." Lothric says coolly, setting a steadying hand on Edmund's shoulder to keep him from drowning in his tankard. "I don't drink because I don't like it. Simple as that."

Edmund mumbles something he doesn't catch and promptly falls asleep. He stares at the other boy for a few seconds, sighing when he realizes that he'll have to carry him up to his room. Perhaps he can ask someone to help. It's a lot of stairs to trek alone, carrying somebody.

The mage apologies the next day, holding a chunk of conjured ice to his head.

Lothric pats his arm. Later, they save each other from an angry coeurl and return to camp with plenty for dinner.


	9. Learning Faces - Sirris

She notices the tense air about the group as she is called forward for the interview. Their leader, a young man with bright blond hair and serious eyes asks her all the standard questions she has come to expect.

What she does not expect, however, is to be asked whether or not she drinks.

"Pardon, ser?" She furrows her brow quizzically.

"Do you drink?" Ramza repeats. He holds himself well, but there is weariness behind his eyes. "I've already had to dismiss two of my company for it. Moderation is to be expected. Not excess."

She files that away, lifting her chin. "I do not drink, ser. I have not the stomach for it."

There is a flicker of relief in his eyes at that. For the first time since their introduction, he smiles.

"My apologies, miss. But I had to be certain."

"Of course, ser." She bows. It surprises him, but he does not ridicule her for it.

The relief she feels when he buys her contract is difficult to put into words. On one hand, it is frustrating to think that the sum of her worth could be lowered down to fifteen hundred gil - just enough to cover her sword. On the other, she has the chance to prove herself now.

She puts it firmly from her mind and stands at attention as he introduces her to the rest of his company.

-

The rain makes it difficult to see and it has long turned the ground to mud. It hampers the feral chocobos little and she tries not to slip and fall as she hurries to provide Folke and Lothric backup. The air crackles with thunder and a bolt lances down towards the other bird, killing it instantly. Edmund wobbles on his feet, steam or smoke rising from his robes and hat and she hears Ramza yell something but cannot make it out over the next peal of thunder.

It is entirely by accident that she stumbles over the squire. She is wearing nothing but greens and browns, huddled behind a spire of rock for cover.

As their eyes meet Sirris feels her stomach twist uncomfortably. Recognition flashes in the girl's eyes, her face awful in its familiarity.

"You're - " She starts to say, neglecting to reach for her sword or for one of the rocks at her feet.

In a panic, Sirris swings her sword and catches the girl along her arm. Her meager shield crunches, broken almost perfectly down the middle. The girl screams, unable to step back thanks to the spire she'd already tucked herself against.

"Wait! Please, stop, Le-!"

Sirris brings her sword to bear again and plunges it straight into the girl's chest, muscles drawn tight and quivering with tension. With fear.

_Die_ , she silently begs, watching the girl cough and sputter. _Die, quickly, I beg you. Do not call me by that name._

Withdrawing her sword produces an awful sound, but the girl slumps, her eyes losing their light. Nausea roils in her belly, but she stomps it down, hurrying from the corpse to provide assistance to her comrades.

She prays they never ask what happened. She is not sure what she would tell them.


	10. Learning Faces - Edmund

Edmund has an older brother. They aren't close, but his sibling serves under the Order of the Southern Sky and it has always been expected that he would follow in those large footsteps. He tries. He makes it into the Akademy and works hard at his studies. Some days, he almost enjoys the drills and the spars.

He isn't his brother, though, and the sword doesn't interest him much.

When he sees Folke summon the light of a curative spell one day he feels something stir inside of him in answer. Something that thrums with _energy_. Energy that wants to be let _out_.

The first rod he ever owns is what they sell in the outfitter's of the Akademy - simple and notable only for the yellow orb crowning its head. He gives it a swing, just to test it, and finds that he likes it better than a broadsword anyway.

Ramza considers him for a long moment when he brings up the idea of studying black magic, but it fades away into a supportive smile quickly enough.

"If that is what you feel, then I encourage you to follow it. Better to listen to that voice within than deafen yourself to it with another's advice."

It's the first time he's ever heard that, put in quite those words. He takes to his tomes eagerly and soon masters the basics of fire and blizzard. Soon enough he can call down thunder and summon poison to lay an enemy low. Folke jokes that he will have the black mage's arts mastered within the next month and Edmund rolls his eyes.

"You're far ahead of me, battle cleric." He teases right back, bumping shoulders with the green eyed boy. "You will be the strongest white mage this side of Ivalice for years to come."

Folke pushes him, but his cheeks are pink. Edmund has his suspicions about that and the way Roundelph and the mage talk, but that's none of his business.

-

He sees Sreda fling herself in the way of the charging Knight too late and opens his mouth to shout - it may do no good, but perhaps he can call one of the others to help, he's too far away and a monk's aurablast only extends so far.

Then, to his great surprise, the man stops his charge entirely and all but stumbles into Sreda's arms, swaying and dazed as he looks down at her. There's something shimmery and pink that's wrapping itself around the man, solidifying into a ghostly heart that floats above the man's head. He doesn't drop his sword, but he leans down as if to let her whisper into his ear.

Whatever she says makes the most beatific smile cross the Knight's face. He doesn't even notice her cut his purse strings.

She leads the Knight closer, tugging him along by the hand while he follows as docilely as a hound. She catches him watching and nods, stepping back from the besotted man.

Edmund realizes several things at once.

Sreda is _singing_. Not just any old song, but a Gallione _love ballad_. And the Knight reaching for her is drinking it up like a starving man.

He feels just slightly guilty as he puts the man down, dusting off his hands as he turns to look at Sreda counting the coin she'd stolen from him.

"I didn't know you could sing." He says thoughtfully.

She glances at him, then goes back to the purses' contents. "You never asked."

"Are thieves _supposed_ to know love ballads?" He jests, setting his hands on his hips as he grins.

She tosses a gil at him, laughing. "Shove off. Like you don't secretly read poetry when you think we've all gone to bed."

"Incantations are not poetry." He corrects, catching the money.

"It rhymes." She counters, stowing the purse away on her person and tightening the bandanna on her head. "That's close enough."


	11. Concern

"Will you be comfortable enough to sleep?" Sreda pauses, examining what she can see of Rapha's profile in the dark. "I can fetch you another blanket if - "

"I am well provided as I am." Rapha replied curtly, curling up a little further. "You needn't pretend at concern."

Sreda shimmied the rest of the way into the tent, laying on her side to keep a modicum of space between herself and the other girl. It was a warm night, at least, and the ground possessed few rocks with which to prod at her sides or back with. Belatedly she reached up to shove off her cap, too tired to bother with untying her hair.

"It isn't pretending." She mumbled around a yawn, slipping an arm beneath her head in lieu of a pillow. "Some nights get cold, is all."

Rapha didn't respond. Sreda listened, wearily, for a moment long before turning herself over to sleep.


	12. Strain

"I would rather share a tent with my sister." Marach frowned, looking as though he'd prefer being far, far away from the camp in general at that particular moment.

Lothric thought he could understand the sentiment. It did not stop him from shaking out his bedroll.

"Miss Rapha has already gone to sleep as I understand it." He nodded in the direction of the girls' tents, watching Marach follow his gaze with a scowl. "The girls usually sleep together, unless we are pressed for space. If you like, you may speak to Ramza about it in the morning."

"You think you can order me about?" Marach's head whipped around, eyes hard. He drew himself up like he was spoiling for a fight.

Lothric noted, with some surprise, that the boy was a little taller than him.

"No." He answered calmly. "I would not presume. But everyone is tired and headed for bed, save for the guard. If it is that much of a problem you are free to ask someone else to be your tent mate."

Listening to it, he sounded colder than he'd actually intended, but fatigue gnawed at his joints and the day's events were ones he'd quite like to put out of mind.

Softening his voice, Lothric tried again. "Sreda is a good woman, Marach. She would no sooner hurt Rapha than she would turn her knife on any of us."

"And you ask that I trust you on this?" Marach spat, broad hands curling into fists.

"Yes." He said simply, wearily. "I am sorry for the circumstances that have led you here, but you are among friends. Whether you choose to see us that way is your own decision to make."

He stepped past the conflicted boy, slipping into the tent and picking a side for himself to lay down his bed roll. Removing his armor took a while, especially alone, but soon enough the winged helmet and everything else lay in a somewhat orderly pile above where his head would lay. Folding the long red cape, testing it for sturdiness, he opted to use it rather than his arm for a pillow.

The tent flap opened again and Marach crawled through, still giving off an air of uneasy energy. He felt around in the dark, grunting when he found the bed roll Ramza had procured for him.

"Don't think this makes us friends." The boy muttered darkly, clothes rustling as he laid down.

"Whatever you wish." Lothric hummed, closing his eyes as he put his back to him.


	13. Rest

"My pardons, ma'am." Sirris shifted. "I did not know you were awake, still."

Reis considered her with one large eye, scaled forelegs crossed over one another at the wrist. Her wings rose, briefly, then settled back against her sides. If she blinked, Sirris could not see it.

"Was the night's meal enough?" She asked softly, genuinely curious. "If not then more can be provided."

The woman-turned-dragon laid her head down, seemingly uninterested in the prospect of more food. Her other golden eye seemed fixed on a particular tent. She sighed - accidentally creating a small gust that smelled akin to a furnace.

"Ser Beowulf will recover, ma'am." Sirris assured, smoothing down her tabard. "Folke is a capable healer. After a night's rest I am certain he will return to your side."

Perhaps it was the wrong thing to say. Reis tucked her head a little more firmly over her folded limbs, one wing lifting as if to cover her face.

Sirris said nothing more, settling in beside the dragon to wait out the night.

She woke to darkness and something hard pressing against her side, accompanied by a heat she'd never felt save by standing right beside a roaring fire. At some point she had fallen asleep, it seemed, and Reis had tucked her under one of her wings.


	14. Wonder

Mustadio smiled as he ran the rag over his pistol again. "I suppose it could be Ramza's lot in life to collect unusual companions."

Edmund looked up at that, momentarily forgetting what he'd been studying. "Oh?"

"Well, there's me, to start." Mustadio's smile widened. "A machinist isn't that common outside of Goug. And we've collected a dragon and her knight. There's Cid - "

"Cid is a veteran of the Fifty Years War." Edmund pointed out teasingly, marking his place in his book for later. "Just because he can send any of us flying into the nearest river doesn't mean he is terribly unusual. A monk can do the same, if they want."

"What of Cloud, then?" Mustadio countered, one brow arching. "He can accomplish such a feat easily, but I've never seen or heard of a thing called _materia_ or someone with a weapon like that."

Edmund laughed, "You think Cloud's odder than Lady Reis? I'll give you that, the materia is a strange thing, but any man might find a sword like his if they wished it forged such a way."

The machinist rolled his eyes, looking slightly put out as he turned back to his gun. "Mayhap. But who in their right mind would _want_ such a thing?"

"There are stranger things, friend." Edmund settled back in his seat, opening his book again. "I am surprised you haven't mentioned our 'sky pirate', Balthier. He spins an interesting tale to listen to."

"He does, doesn't he?" Mustadio hummed, checking the arrangement of tools he'd set aside. "I should like to see the Ivalice he hails from. Airships as common place things - viera and bangaa and seeq to boot! It must have been full of wonders."

"Our Ivalice has its wonders." Edmund assured, turning a page. The recipe for a hi-ether continued, thankfully, and he frowned over the extensive list of ingredients. "They may not be so easily seen, but we have them - I'm sure."

He heard the other boy chuckle softly. "And what do you consider a wonder, my friend? Your spellbooks? A Chemist's list of concoctions?"

"Rapha and Marach are wonders," Edmund mused, making a note to ask whether they could retrace their steps to the nearest city soon. "The things they do turn the laws of the world on their head, and that is no small thing. What's happened to Lady Reis is terrible, but also a wondrous thing. Ser Beowulf's sword can turn a man into a chicken, supposedly."

"That's more of an oddity than a wonder, I'd say." Mustadio interjected.

"There's Cloud and Balthier and there's Boco," Edmund continued, pretending as though he hadn't heard. "There's the fact that any of us have made it this far at all, being who and what we are. And there is you, Mustadio."

"Me?" The machinist blinked owlishly, frozen over reassembling his weapon.

Edmund nodded, not looking up from his book. "You got Worker 8 to function. And there's the fact that you have yet to blow yourself sky-high with your _concoctions_."

"I - now that's -!" Mustadio flushed, sitting abruptly straight as he fumbled through his outrage.

Edmund snickered, ducking the rag that was thrown at him.


	15. Misadventures - Part 1

"I don't believe it's supposed to do that." Ladd mused, peering concernedly over Lavain's shoulder. "Are potions not supposed to be.. blue?"

The woman's shoulders tightened and she whisked the failed potion out of his sight, cheeks pink. "It matters not. I shall try again. As many times as it takes."

"Lavain - " Ladd backed up a couple of steps, concern shifting to alarm when she thrust the mixture into the river. The water bubbled, but seemed none the worse for wear. "Mayhap you could ask one of the others to help."

"I," she began through gritted teeth. "Am a Knight. Sworn to Princess Ovelia's guard. I can mix so simple a thing as a potion."

He watched her ready the supposed ingredients once again, stepping around the small fire and kettle she was using to brew her mixtures.

"I do not know the craft either." He admitted, hands folding before him as he sat. "There is no shame to it."

Her mouth tightened, but she said nothing. The kettle hissed a little when she poured the water into it with slightly more force than necessary, but settled quick enough.

"I am not used to feeling behind." She breathed slowly, gaining control over herself. "It is.. frustrating."

"Aye, it is." Ladd smiled gently. "But we all must start somewhere."


	16. Misadventures - Part 2

"Did you just..." Folke blinked, glancing between Roundelph and the shop they were quickly leaving behind, too confused to think about the warm grasp on his hand. "Did you just use spellcraft on that man?"

"He was hiking up the price and you know it." Roundelph replied, leading them on a weaving trail through the city. "If I did, it's not that different from bartering and haggling."

Folke stumbled over his own feet, hurrying to keep up. "Yes it is! You aren't supposed to use spellcraft on a person who's not your enemy!"

"Got what we needed." Roundelph flashed him a grin over his shoulder, perking up as the next street came into view. "Besides, we need to save our money. At least until Boco has another egg."


	17. Curiosity

"Are you from Fovoham? Perhaps the Walled City of Yardrow?" Alicia guessed, watching Lothric's hands as he worked. Despite handling a sword or a spear for as long as she had known him, his hands remained curiously pale - fingers long and slender. His nails were dark, trimmed just so to keep them out of the way.

"I have never been to the Walled City." He told her, not looking up. The needle flashed between his fingers, thread pulled taunt as he added another stitch. "Why the sudden interest, my lady?"

"You have something familiar about you, is all." She explained, frowning. "I should merely like to puzzle out what it is."

He said nothing to that. As he bent his head to examine his work a little more of his long, pale hair crept free of its tie and hung like a wisp of fey-flame by his cheek.

"Limberry, mayhap?" She tried again, scrutinizing his features. "Zeltennia?"

"I have no home to return to, lady." Lothric murmured, "And I should like it if you were to let the topic be."

"I.. I am sorry, ser. I meant no offense."


	18. Wager

Cid did not often make a habit of eavesdropping. Not unless he possessed good reason to do so. What he heard, however, amused him more than anything else.

"I'd wager Boco would outstrip him in a minute, give or take." Agrias mused.

Balthier, if indeed that was his name, chuckled. "Oh? I wouldn't have expected so bold a statement from so serious a knight."

"I have seen him outrun soldiers and monsters alike." Agrias folded her arms, watching the chocobo prod amiably at Cloud's shoulder with his beak. "One man cannot be much different."

"Ah, but one man may be enough to tip the scales one way or the other." Balthier countered smoothly. He extended a hand towards the holy knight, palm up. "Shall we make it a proper wager?"

Cid watched her study him before slowly, almost reluctantly, clasping his hand.


	19. Misadventures - Part 3

A solid, unexpected gust blew the last of the candles out - drawing groans from several people. A few of them shifted uncomfortably as the dark settled.

"Well, that does it." Ramza sighed. "Does anyone possess a match, by chance?"

"If Lady Reis were with us she might easily light the way." A voice muttered.

Beowulf reprimanded the speaker thoroughly, his voice low and commanding in the dark.

"Be easy. I've got this." Red-orange light flickered into being, held aloft by Edmund. He glanced over the members of the party, counting heads. "Are we missing anyone?"

"I do not believe so." Rapha folded her arms around herself protectively, glancing at the dancing shadows with narrowed eyes. Beside her, Marach squared his shoulders, ready to confront whatever may be waiting outside the circle of Edmund's flame.

Ramza frowned as he looked at it. "I don't suppose you can keep a single spell going for very long?"

"Depends on how large this cave is." Edmund shrugged. "I'll have to release it at some point, to avoid burning myself."

"Ah - "

"Found one! A match that is." Sreda stepped closer into the ring of light, striking the match and helping Ramza to light the candle within the lantern. She did the small for the small tallow that remained in Beowulf's lantern, smiling with pride. "There. Better than nothing, it is."

Edmund waited until the flames had steadied before he let his spell die out, shaking his hand with a frown.

"Onwards, then." Ramza mused, turning back to the tunnel.


	20. Misadventures - Part 4

Meliadoul stared, blinking sleep from her eyes. "What," she asked, "are you doing?"

"M'sorry." Ladd mumbled, flinching when another peal of thunder broke out overhead. It rattled the windows of the room. "I-I just got back and.. I thought I had the correct room.."

"Obviously, you do not." The templar replied coolly. If she had any reaction to the storm outside he couldn't see it.

"R-right. I apologize. Please, forgive me." Hunching in on himself, Ladd fumbled for the door - all but tumbling out into the hall.

In the other bed, Reis stirred. She sat up slowly, rubbing at one eye.

"Has something happened?"

"Nay. Go back to your dreams, my lady." Meliadoul sank back among her blankets, sighing into her pillow. "Fool picked a room at random, is all."

"Ah." The woman yawned, covering her mouth with the back of one hand. "Pity be on him. It sounds terrible out there."

Meliadoul said nothing, already asleep.


	21. Intimate Things - 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of sex.

“Relax. Relax, or you’ll hurt yourself.” Edmund whispered, thumbs stroking gentle lines over Folke’s hips. He saw the other’s hands curl slowly into fists, twisting the blankets between his fingers. Leaning over him he pressed a soft peck to the spot behind Folke’s ear. “It’s alright. Take as long as you need.”

“I’m still surprised you know anything about this.” Folke laughed, the sound shaky and uneven.

“You learn a lot of things when you’ve too much time on your hands at the Akademy.” Edmund teased, pressing his cheek against Folke’s. “First time’s the most uncomfortable. I’ll go slow, once you’re ready.”

Some of the tension faded from the other mage’s shoulders. He slowly took in a breath and let it out as a short laugh, nudging Edmund’s cheek with his own. “I knew you had a polite bone in you somewhere.”

“It’s conditional, I’m afraid.” Edmund sighed gravely. “Black mage and all that.”


	22. Mischief

“You think he’ll notice?” Roundelph mused.

“I would be quite surprised if he didn’t.” Ladd chewed on his lip, peering over the edge of the bridge they stood on. Below, dockhands were busily unloading a ship and bustling back and forth with their cargo. It was almost fascinating to watch the organized chaos.

One head in particular stood out - bright blond against brunet and the rare auburn traversing the dock. Ramza seemed not to have caught on that he was being watched. Ladd turned his attention back to Roundelph as the other boy stood.

“Right. You, head to the stalls where they keep the milk. Buy up as much as you can.” A playful glint shone in Roundelph’s eye. “Take it back to camp. Sreda and Sirris will be waiting.”

“Milk?” Ladd repeated questioningly, standing.

“It’s his favorite drink. You’ll see.” Roundelph smirked.

Ladd watched him go, glancing once more at their leader as Ramza bartered for a new breastplate.

“What does buying milk have to do with anything?” He murmured, slowly turning to do as he’d been told.


	23. Benevolent Conspiracy

Alicia snatched her hands away from Lavain’s face as she heard footsteps approaching. They tidied themselves as quickly as they could, willing the heat from their faces as Agrias rounded the corner.

To their surprise, she did not appear to notice them at first. Her attention seemed riveted on something in her hand.

“H.. Happy birthday, Lady Agrias.” Alicia called softly.

“Has the day been pleasant for you?” Lavain asked, lifting her chin as though nothing were the matter.

Agrias paused, blinking, and regarded them both thoughtfully.

“It has,” she said at last, slipping whatever had been in her hand into the pouch at her side. She gave each of them another look, expression unreadable. “Did either of you say something to Mustadio? He seemed to be well informed that it was my birthday.”

Alicia resisted the temptation to look at Lavian, though her cheeks warmed a little.

“We meant no harm in it, Lady.”

“We thought you might like to celebrate..” Lavian added. “You rarely did, before.”

“You’ve a point, I suppose.” Agrias turned away from them. “Though I must admit I do not possess an idea on how to thank him.”

They traded glances with one another behind their leader’s back, equal smiles threatening their composure.


	24. Curiosity

“How do you do that?” Marach frowned, watching Lothric slowly close his hand into a fist - dismissing the pale hovering light he’d conjured.

“It is a simple trick. No more.” Lothric closed his book carefully, sliding it back into his pack for later. “Any mage might learn it, if they have the focus.”

He scoffed at that, crossing his legs. “Do it again.”

“For what purpose? Is it not your sister who can disrupt another’s magic?”

“Don’t bring Rapha into this.” Marach warned, leaning his elbows on his knees. “I want to see how this magic trick works. You don’t have to worry about whether I can break your hold over it or not.”

To his surprise, the shorter boy laughed. It was a peculiarly soft sound. Light.

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt. It may be useful to you someday, when you are faced with dogged contenders.”


	25. Intimate Things - 2

“You’re certain you won’t be in town long?” He asked, reaching to toy with the loose ends of her hair. His face fell a little when she shook her head, but he mustered a smile “Well, I suppose that’s the way of things. If you’re ever in need of work that doesn’t involve a blade, I’ll be here.”

Sreda allowed herself a smile, to stay as she was - limbs splayed without care, warmth and satisfaction humming through her senses. “There’s nothing wrong with mercenary work. Not if you’re used to it.”

“A bit odd for a mercenary to have such a lovely singing voice.” He teased.

She kissed him once, nipping at his bottom lip. “Not at all. We must keep ourselves entertained, after all.”


	26. Camp

Gariland is not known for it’s cuisine, in truth. The largest attraction, if it can be called that, is the Academy where cadets are drilled into squires, then into knights and chemists and whatever else pressures them into further choice. Its staples are thick breads and tasty stews, smoked meat and military rations.

It is, beneath the gilt of the nobles who live there, a soldier’s city and they subsist on the things that last.

Eagrose is more fanciful. Whether it be owed to the presence of Duke Larg or some other contribution there is allowance for luxurious tastes. Or, as Roundelph mutters, “overly refined palates”. He asks for Ramza’s pardon, later, only to be answered by an amused chuckle.

“You are not wrong.” Ramza’s face is soft in the firelight and he is smiling. “Where else could one glut themselves on tarts with whipped cream?”

Sirris looks faintly surprised, next to him. Sreda only sighs and leans back on her hands, empty bowl and wooden spoon resting by her feet. “Much as it sounds like a dream, it holds not but a stomach ache on the morn.”

Edmund says something Roundelph doesn’t quite catch but it makes Ramza laugh deep and loud - like he hasn’t done since before Fort Zeikeden. Before Tietra, and Milleuda and Wiegraf.

It is a good thing to hear and they all join in once their resident black mage repeats himself.

“It’s still better than Argath’s attempt at cooking. Limberry must be hard off, if they’re all like him.”

Dorter, they agree, is a worthy place to test one’s acceptance of new tastes and smells. The merchant city lives up to its name and there are at least a few dishes some of them have never heard of before.

Lesalia, Lothric mentions once, over a plate of mutton and potatoes, is worse than Eagrose. The capital city curries to the favor of its royal family’s desires and so one might dine on venison or lamb one night only to arrive at the table on the morrow to find something unrecognizable. Possibly gelatinous, depending on the fashion.

No one’s sure how he knows this.

Warljis, Folke says, has the best choice of food from the sea. He gets gently mocked for this statement by a couple of them and Marach comments that if he likes the water so much he can gladly push the mage into it.

The debate on whether or not Marach actually could is drawn to a close when Rapha bites into her meal and draws back with a pained sound. Conversation stops and heads turn across camp to see what’s the matter. Her eyes are watering and one hand covers the twist of her mouth as she holds the plate away from herself as though it were a serpent.

“Rapha, are you -” Agrias starts, her usual impassive expression cracked with worry.

Marach reaches for his sister, concern written clearly across his face.

_“Too hot.”_ Rapha manages, coughing.

Mustadio immediately apologizes, loudly and with great fervor. There’s a bit of chaos around the campfire as he tries to stand and not bump into anyone else, with a little success.

“I was wondering why I didn’t taste anything - ah, I’m sorry Miss Rapha! Our plates must have gotten switched and - ”

_“What,”_ Marach growls, low and dangerous, “did you do to her?”

For a moment - sublime and comical - Mustadio is frozen mid-step over Cloud’s legs, much to the taller man’s dislike. One arm outstretched, balancing plate and utensil precariously over the mercenary’s legs and the pebble strewn ground. It’s clear enough from the mechanic’s surprise that he’d never thought to harm Rapha in the first place.

Stepping over Cloud, Mustadio’s shoulders drop and those that can see his face easily spot the regret in his features.

“Well… y'see in Goug we like a little spice to change things up a bit and so I bought some peppers while we were in the city last and thought I’d mix them in.” He bites his lip, cheeks glowing almost as pink as poor Rapha’s. “It wasn’t my intent to get them mixed up. If you want to switch or - or something fresh I can - ”

“Here.” Reis offers, rising from her spot by the fire to offer the shorter woman her portion of bread. “I haven’t touched it,” she promises, smile delicate and soft. “and it will help quell the heat. If you should like to switch plates with myself or Mustadio, no one shall take offence. Every person is inclined to their own tastes.”

Rapha nods and the exchange is made - Reis’ bowl of stew and hunk of bread for the spicy mutton and vegetables neatly mixed together. The once dragon-now woman turns to Mustadio and they divide the portions between themselves. The machinist’s cheeks are still brightly pink and he makes several more apologies before Balthier tugs him down by his coveralls to sit. Reis steps carefully over legs and bowls until she can sit beside her lover once more, breathing in the smell of her new dinner with curious excitement. Beowulf watches her take a bite, worried that her reaction might mirror her companion’s - but his lady only nods to show her approval.

“Fickle things, peppers.” Balthier mutters contemplatively as he twists the spoon in his bowl. “Some claim they only taste sweet - others find within them the very fires of hell. Can never be too careful, eh?” He winks at Rapha and she ignores him.

Mustadio pursues his meal with worrying vivacity, shoveling bite after bite into his mouth as though afraid someone will take it from him. He stops only when Sirris urges him to, accepting a canteen with bashful thanks.

“The Church believes in humility within one’s self.” Meliadoul muses, quiet up until then. Her wimple remains upon her head despite the easy air of camp, greatsword never far from her hand. “A steady diet of porridge and plain meats with a hard roll builds character - though I find this to be much easier to indulge.” She added, a thin smile playing with the corners of her mouth.


End file.
